From the top of my head to the tips of my toes

           When I was a young girl, people would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up. The answer was always the same—a mother. Of course, I dreamed of being a ballerina, an artist, a world traveler, a circus performer, and a rock star. I wanted to see and experience everything this mortal life had to offer. However, I knew I could do it all as a mother. Motherly love is woven into the very essence of who I am.

I was four, maybe five years old. Under my bright blue eyes laid a sprinkle of freckles gifted to me by hours of playing in the summer sun. Curly blonde ringlets fell down my back, the type my mother loved to run her fingers through, only to watch as they bounced back into place. Fastened tight to my back was the most fabulous Strawberry Shortcake backpack I just had to have for the new school year. I wore a blue jean jacket and skirt with white cowgirl boots that landed just above my ankles. The boots had fringe down the side and pink bedazzled jewels adorning the toes. I can imagine the weight on my knees as I continually hovered over my baby doll’s cradle. It was made of dark wood and etched with pink hearts my grandfather had made just for me. I kept my baby doll close to my heart as though it hurt to lay her down. Mother said I couldn’t bring toys to school, so baby doll would nap until I returned from a day of ABCs. Mother’s voice came from the living room, reminding me we had to go. I gave my baby doll one last hug before I tucked her into the little cradle, pulled a crocheted blanket snugly around her arms, and gave the cradle a few gentle rocks until I believed she was sleeping. I took one last look at her, kissed my finger, and touched it to her cheek. I jumped up and ran to the truck before I was tardy for class, my blonde ringlets, and Strawberry Shortcake backpack bouncing the entire way. Even at a young age, I was learning to love, nurture, and care for others.

My bouncing blonde ringlets grew over the years, and I traded the cowgirl boots for dance shoes. However, I was continually blessed with experiences and opportunities to feel love and connection with those around me.

At age sixteen, silence filled the room, and I just stood there, completely frozen as I stared down at baby Chance. Motionless and without sound, I didn’t realize I was crying until the salty sensation rolled past my lips. After a few moments in stillness, I looked over my shoulder, searching for my mother’s reaction. I was desperate for her to make the first move. If she moved, then I could move. She met my stare and then smiled at Chance’s mother, Debbie. A sigh of relief came from my chest as the two smiled back at me. Wide-eyed and mesmerized, I continued to stare at his fragile body sleeping in his crib; he had a covering over his eyes and cords running in various directions. I watched Debbie as she looked down at her baby. As she picked him up, I couldn’t help but notice the way she moved, the softness in her motions, and the gentle embrace as their skin touched. His tiny body was just big enough to fill the palms of her hands. Her body relaxed, and the look in her eyes as she admired her baby said nowhere else felt more like home. I could see love rushing through her body, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She was utterly in love.

            When it was finally time to go, my mother softly called my name and held me by the hand. It was hard to leave. My body ached, wanting to watch him a little longer, to be in his presence just one more minute. There was something in the air that felt angelic. Perhaps actual angels were watching over and bringing the calming feeling that filled the room. Everything was going to be ok, I felt it, and I knew the others felt it too.

            For the rest of the day, my mind was entranced with Chance. Questions swirled around my head faster than my young mind could handle. Tears continued to well up in my eyes, and a steady stream rolled down my cheeks. Soon, my own mother’s hands cupped my face, kissed my forehead, and wiped my tears away. She looked at me with the same look I had seen just hours before. The look that told me nowhere else felt more like home. I felt that same love again; that warmness overcame me as I felt my mother’s soft touch and gentle embrace. My mother’s love was full from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and so was mine. She sat me on her lap and explained what Chance and his family were facing. She told me of the hard days that would inevitably come and the love and support that surrounded him. She explained that baby Chance was born premature and had just returned home from staying months in the hospital. His parents, Richard and Debbie, are good friends of my family. My mother was taking them a home-cooked meal that day, and I just happened to be tagging along. Completely unaware that my whole life would change that afternoon.

I knew I wanted to be part of the support my mother said would surround him. My entire body ached to help. But how? I felt helpless, unable to do something worthwhile to comfort this sweet baby and his family. As I continued crying, my mother again took my cheeks in her hands. The blurry image of her staring back at me assured me he would be okay and we would find another way to help. She pulled a well-loved blanket she had made me many years earlier over my lap. As we began to rock and relax, I heard a soft hum of a lullaby come from her throat, a familiar sound I had heard many times before. The sound of her hum, the scent on her shoulder, and the warmth in her arms, all comforted me until the tears subsided. She hugged me and whispered, “make him a blanket.” She knew my love for sewing and how much I enjoyed making blankets for my friends and siblings.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I was up envisioning the perfect blanket that would help warm baby Chance when he needed it most. I pictured the fabrics I would cut, the different shades of pale blue and yellow. I planned how the pieces would be cut and arranged in a calming and comforting way. I planned the pattern in the stitches and the thread colors to tie it together. I planned out every detail as meticulously as I could. I knew that this was my way of showing support. This was something I could do without requiring any assistance from my family. This was going to be from me every step of the way.

Over the next few days, I poured my heart into that blanket. Every cut of material and every stitch was crafted with love. As my hands moved, my heart warmed, and tears continually flowed. It was an effort not to let the blanket soak as the tears fell. One after another they came, and one after another, I wiped them away. I continued working through the long hours with visions of baby Chance being wrapped up in something made from my two hands. I wanted so badly to watch Richard and Debbie take my blanket and wrap him up and rock him in a rocking chair, just as my mother did me.

The day finally arrived when I completed the blanket. I held it to my heart, knowing that every stitch was infused with love and care. I had finished it on my own and excitement rushed through my veins as I told my mother it was complete. She arranged to drive me over and make that special delivery I had dreamed of. When the day came, I tied a blue ribbon around the blanket and wrote out a card sending my love and prayers their way. When we pulled to the house, my heart was aching to see baby Chance again. I wanted to be in his presence and to feel his sweet spirit. Richard answered the door and hugged me tightly. He graciously welcomed my mother and me into their home. The feeling I had remembered sure enough came rushing back into my heart. I knew baby Chance was close; I could feel him. Richard motioned to the couch and invited us to sit. It wasn’t a moment later that Debbie was walking down the hall, a smile on her face and Chance in her arms. As they both came to sit next to me, I handed Richard the blanket and told them how much I had been praying for their family. Debbie gave me that soft smile and requested Richard to untie the blue bow I had wrapped just earlier. Once the blanket was unwrapped, to my surprise, Debbie laid Chance down and gently wrapped him in it. Again, to my surprise, she asked me if I would like to sit and hold him in their rocking chair. I fought back the stream of tears as I walked over to the chair and allowed Debbie to place him in my arms. My heart was full, and I held him like we were the only two souls on earth. I continually stared at his tiny body and watched as his chest fought for every breath. I felt the contagious strength rushing through his veins, filling my heart with hope. He was a fighter and was going to be ok.

I left their home a different young girl. A softer yet stronger version of myself that could love deeper. I felt more sensitive to the feelings of unconditioned love and could look at someone and know they were a child made from the same divine being as I was. I knew that somehow, we were all connected through light and love.

            Many years passed and I too became a mother. Twenty-two years old and a new baby placed in my arms. I looked into his eyes, and I felt it. I knew that same look was coming from me as I held and admired my baby—that look I’d seen mothers give their children many times before. Our skin touching and hearts beating as one, together we were home, forever. I knew I stood with the mothers that came before me. It all made sense at that moment; the holy calling and divine privilege was mine. A mother, and I would never be the same. 

Known in the Body: Intelligences, Creation, and the God of Relationship

 

Recently, I’ve been reading two beautiful books. Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer and Rooted by Lyanda Lynn Haupt. Both of them talk about the natural world in a way that feels reverent and deeply relational. They describe rivers, plants, stones, animals:  not as objects but as beings with presence, awareness, and meaning.

Not mystical in a fantasy sense.
But relational.
Alive with spirit.

And as I read, I felt this familiar echo stirring inside me: like something I had once known was waking up again.

Because what they were describing, this sense that creation is aware and responsive, reminded me of what my dad taught me growing up.

He used to tell me that before anything else existed.... before spirits, before the physical world..

there were intelligences. Eternal. Uncreated. Aware.

Doctrine & Covenants 93 teaches that intelligence “was not created or made, neither indeed can be.” And D&C 88 speaks of that same light, that intelligence, filling the sun, the moon, the stars, the earth, and the souls of humankind.

So when my dad talked about God’s power, he didn’t describe it like magic. Not a cosmic wand waving over the universe. He’d say something like:

“When God commands the elements, they move because they know Him. They love Him. They honor Him. So they respond.”

And that way of seeing the world changes everything.

The Red Sea didn’t part because God forced it to.
It parted because even water knows His voice.

Mountains haven’t moved because God dominated them.
They moved because the very particles within them recognized Him: and trusted.

So when I’m reading these earth-reverent books... this language of animacy, of the world being alive with meaning...it doesn’t feel foreign.

It feels like…
“Oh. I’ve heard this before.”

Just in a different language.

It feels like two sacred traditions standing side-by-side saying:

Creation is not a machine.
Creation is a relationship.

And when you believe that everything is made of eternal intelligence, everything lit from within by light..

Then rocks aren’t “just rocks.” Trees aren’t “just trees.” The Earth isn’t an object.

The world becomes a sanctuary.

And I think that’s why my spirit resonates so deeply with earth-based, feminine, relational ways of honoring God.

It’s recognition.
Remembering.

Because if the elements respond to God out of love: then obedience itself isn’t mechanical.

It’s not fear-based.
It’s relational.

It’s responding to the voice you know.

And when I sit with that, when I think about a universe full of intelligences who honor God because they love Them, something softens inside me. Something homesick inside me exhales.

And I find myself longing not for control…
but for connection.

Not to dominate the world…
but to belong to it in a sacred way.

And I imagine God....not as a distant ruler commanding lifeless matter...but as a deeply relational Creator, moving through a universe alive with awareness, love, and trust.

A God who teaches through wind.
And healing through soil.
And comfort through the quiet standing of trees.

A God whose love is the language every intelligence already speaks.

And so maybe…
all the ways my heart longs for grounded, feminine, earth-honoring spirituality
aren’t signs that I’m wandering

Maybe they are signs that I am remembering:

That the universe is relational.
That creation is love-based.
That everything responds to God because everything knows Them.

And so do I.

When Love Labors: Finding Christ in Women’s Suffering

I’ve noticed that this season, especially just after Christmas, many of us feel a kind of quiet relief. We’ve spent weeks celebrating the Savior's birth by singing about the manger, peace, and angels… then everything suddenly falls still again. The decorations come down. The calendar opens. And we’re left alone with our thoughts.

For me, that quiet has often brought questions I didn’t know how to ask out loud.

For a very, very long time, I wrestled with something deeply personal: how could Jesus Christ, born as a man, living as a man, truly know me? How could He understand my experience as a woman? My body, my sacrifices, pain, grief, and love? I believed in Him. I trusted His Atonement. But I still ached for something familiar, for a woman’s face, a mother’s voice, a sister's comforting words, someone who could understand what it means to give yourself away in ways that leave your body and heart changed forever.

I longed for a woman to pray to, a divine feminine presence who could hold what felt too embodied, too tender, too uniquely female to place anywhere else. I didn’t feel rebellious. It felt natural and necessary. And instead of pushing those questions away, I sat with them. I prayed with them, I cried, and I cried, and I cried over them. I carried them in my heart, hoping the Lord wouldn’t be offended by my wondering.

What I found was not rejection or anger but peace.

As I poured into the topic, I began to understand why that peace came. And as I studied, I realized how deeply I needed to hear from women themselves… not just commentary about women's experience, but the lived witness of women who have carried these questions in their own bodies and hearts. I learned the Atonement isn’t just something to be understood in theory, but something we are meant to enter into. That mattered to me because relationships aren’t abstract. They’re lived. They’re entered with the heart and the body together.

I learned the Atonement is an Individual experience…

Because as I began to look more closely at the Savior, I noticed something I hadn’t before. I noticed the way He speaks. The images He chooses when He tries to explain His love.

At one point, Jesus says, “How oft would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings.” Not as a king gathering subjects. Not as a warrior defending territory. But as a mother gathering her young…..covering them with her own body, absorbing danger so they can be safe.

After His resurrection, in the Book of Mormon, Christ repeats this same image again and again. He says He would gather His people “as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings” if they would come unto Him. That repetition matters. Christ wants us to understand something about the nature of His care. It is protective. It is sheltering. It is willing to bear pain in order to preserve life.

I began to realize that the Savior does not shy away from women's pain. He does not minimize it, nor does He stand at a distance from it. In fact, the more I studied His Atonement, the more I realized something deeper. Something I had always heard and been taught, even as a little girl, but never truly grasped: Christ didn’t just observe suffering. He entered it. Fully and completely.

Alma teaches that Christ would “go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind… that He may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities.” The phrase **according to the flesh** stops me. Because it tells us that Christ didn’t gain theoretical knowledge of pain. He gained embodied knowledge.

And suddenly, the comparison that once felt strange to me began to feel sacred.

Childbirth.

There is a moment I still remember clearly from one of my labors. Everything had narrowed… all time, sound, and thought. I remember thinking that I have nothing left. My body was shaking. I wasn’t calm or brave or glowing. I was raw. I remember gripping the edge of the bed and saying out loud, “I can’t do this.” And then, almost immediately, realizing that I already was. There was no exit. No shortcut. Only staying. Only breathing. Only trusting that somehow, life would come through the pain instead of around it.

Later, when I held my baby, I remember thinking how wonderful it was that love could come wrapped in exhaustion, blood, and tears…..and still be holy. That moment changed the way I understood suffering. It wasn’t punishment. It wasn’t failure. It was transformation. It was love doing its hardest work.

Former counselor in the General Relief Society presidency, Sister Chieko Okazaki, taught that there is nothing we experience as women that Christ does not also know and recognize. She taught that on a profound level, He understands the hunger to hold your baby that sustains you through pregnancy, and that He understands both the physical pain of giving birth and the immense joy. He understands miscarriage and infertility,  not because He lived those experiences in a womans body, but because the Atonement is profoundly personal and embodied. In Gethsemane and on the cross, He entered into the real pains, losses, hopes, and heartbreaks of every one of us.

When I return to the scriptures, Gethsemane no longer feels abstract. Isaiah’s words took on new meaning: “He shall see of the travail of his soul, and shall be satisfied.” Travail is not a gentle word. It is the word we use for labor. For bringing forth life through pain.

Luke tells us that in Gethsemane, Christ’s “sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.” His body knew strain. It knew collapse. It knew what it meant to be pushed beyond its limits for the sake of love. Christ did not suffer to prove something. He suffered to bring forth life.

Again and again, the Lord uses mother-language to describe His love. Through Isaiah, He asks, “Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee.” God chooses the strongest bond we know **a nursing mother** to explain His covenant faithfulness.

Later, He promises, “As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you.” Not with distance. Not with instruction alone. But with presence…. With gentleness…With attunement.

Sister Okazaki also said, “Jesus did not come to explain away our pain, but to be with us in it.” I think that matters. Because it means Christ does not rush us through suffering. He stays because the Atonement is Individual …

At Christmas, we often talk about Mary, but we sometimes rush past her courage. Luke tells us that she “kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.” She carried mystery. She carried fear. She carried a child whose mission would pierce her soul. Simeon prophesied to her, “Yea, a sword shall pierce through thy own soul also.” Mary knew grief not as an abstraction, but as a mother watching her son suffer. And Christ knew grief not as a distant observer, but as the Son who chose to suffer anyway.

Mother and Son both knew sorrow. Both bound by love. Both participants in a plan that required bodies, endurance, and unimaginable trust in God.

As women, many of us know what it means to be asked to give more than we feel possible. To nurture when empty. To endure quietly. To trust that our sacrifices matter. The Savior does not ask this of us from a place of ignorance. He asks it as One who has already borne weight, carried sorrow, and chosen love at great personal cost.

So when I no longer know how to pray **when words fail me** I remember that Christ’s body already knows the language of my pain. I remember that He gathers, bears, feeds, and comforts like a mother. And I let that be enough.

After Christmas, when the world grows quiet again, I feel Him closer. Not just as a baby in a manger, but as a Redeemer who labored, bled, and breathed His last so that none of us, women included…..would ever be alone in our suffering.

I testify that Jesus Christ knows us completely. Not despite our bodies, but through them. Not in theory, but in flesh. And because of that, there is no pain He cannot heal, no grief He cannot hold, and no woman He does not see.

In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Russian Nesting Dolls

A few weeks ago, I found myself searching for peace. I opened my cedar chest, hoping to find something, some tangible piece of comfort left to me by Grandma Shirley after her passing. As I sifted through the memories tucked away inside, my hands settled on a Russian nesting doll given to me by my mother.

I sat for a moment, turning it over in my hands before carefully opening it, one doll inside the next, each cradled within the womb of the other. As I laid them all before me, a sudden and profound realization washed over me. The symbolism struck deep.

Inside each mother is another.

As we approach Mother’s Day, this imagery has only grown more powerful in my heart. I thought of Eve, the mother of all living, named so by Adam because of her divine role in creation. I imagined our Heavenly Parents, knowing that each of Their spirit children longed for mortality, for the chance to gain a body. And in Their infinite wisdom, They created a sacred way for that to happen: through a mother.

A mother's womb is a sacred portal between heaven and earth. It is through her body, her flesh and blood, that spirits enter mortality. It is through her life force, her sacrifice, her very being, that humankind continues. And it is through her milk, her breast that life is sustained.

I once heard that when a woman carries a daughter in her womb, that daughter already holds all the eggs she will ever produce in her lifetime. Which means that, in a way, a mother carries not only her child but the beginnings of her grandchildren as well. Generations nestled within generations. Life held within life.

And now, I have watched this sacred pattern unfold before me in real time. As I said goodbye to my grandmother, my little sister stepped into the eternal sisterhood of motherhood, cradling her firstborn in her arms. I have seen life return to the veil from whence it came, and I have seen it pass through into the world anew. In this, I feel the weight of heaven touching earth.

And in the midst of it all, I look at my own children. The ones who have made me a mother. My heart swells with gratitude as I think of their laughter, their boundless energy, their tiny hands that once clung to me for dear life and now reach outward, growing, exploring, becoming. Each one of them, a piece of eternity placed in my care. Each one, a sacred gift.

Motherhood has stretched and refined me in ways I never could have imagined. It has brought me to my knees in exhaustion and lifted me to the highest peaks of joy. I have felt the Spirit whisper through the chaos of everyday life, reminding me that this work, this holy, daily, unseen labor of love, is the very heart of Heavenly Parents plan.

I am so grateful for my Heavenly Mother, for Eve, the mother of all living, for Mary, the mother of our Savior, Jesus Christ, for my Grandma Shirley, for my mother, my sisters, my aunts, my cousins, and all the women who have shaped me into the woman I am today.

But most of all, I am grateful for my children. For the ones who call me Mom. For the ones who stretch my heart and soul every single day. For the sacred privilege of carrying, birthing, and raising them. For the overwhelming love that links me with my husband and, together with our Heavenly Parents, in the divine creation of life. For bringing spirit and body into this world through my own flesh.

Motherhood is woven into the perfect plan of our Heavenly Parents. And today, I feel the wonder of it all.

 

First Quarter Moon • First Monday of the Month • First Step Forward

There’s something electric in the air today. Can you feel it?

It’s the first Monday of the month
It’s the first Moon Day of June
And the moon herself is halfway between seed and bloom

first quarter and rising.

The energy of this phase is clear:
Build. Take action. Grow into the intention you planted.

So that’s what I’m doing.
Quietly. Imperfectly. Faithfully.

This week, I started something I’ve been circling for years:
The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron.

I’ve started The Artist’s Way before. A few times. 

A few weeks in and I always start to feel... silly. Like I’m pretending. Like maybe I’m not a real artist. Like maybe this whole thing is just a game I’m playing with myself.

One I’ll eventually lose when life gets loud, busy, and I stop showing up for myself. 

The morning pages start strong, then feel forced. I forget my artist dates..or get busy..or feel stupid.

I get in my head. 

I wonder if I’m wasting my time. If I’m worthy of this healing. If I’m allowed to create.

But something in me is whispering or screaming, if I'm honest... to try again. 

And this time, I knew I wanted an anchor. Something to ground me when the doubts showed up. Something to hold onto when I want to let go.

So I pulled a card.

Seven of Wands.

At first, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. But I stuck with my rule of never repulling. Just dig deeper.

What do I see and feel? What are the cards, my soul, my highest self, trying to tell me?

Then I felt this fierce little flame flicker in my belly. This card....this wand-wielder, standing tall on her hill... she’s me.

Or at least the version of me that’s trying to be born.

The Seven of Wands says:

“You’re going to feel resistance. That doesn’t mean you’re wrong. That means you’re right on time.”

This card is about holding your ground, even when it shakes. Even when others...or your own inner critic question your path. It’s about choosing to show up anyway.

It’s the perfect anchor for this journey because that’s what this book is really about: not becoming an artist, but remembering that I already am one. And that remembering takes courage.

The Seven of Wands tells me:

My creative voice is worth defending

I don’t need to justify my joy.

I’m not here to prove anything. I’m here to reclaim.

I love that it isn’t a soft card. It’s not gentle permission...it’s persistence. It’s saying: You’ve already climbed the hill. Now plant your flag.

This time, I’m not walking this path hoping not to fall. I’m walking it holding a wand of light, knowing the ground may shake, but I’ve got roots.

So here we go again. Not from the beginning. From the becoming.
And this time, I’m holding my ground.

My garden is my sanctuary, my soil, my stillness. As I begin The Artist’s Way again, I’m reminded that pulling weeds and writing morning pages do the same thing: they clear space in my mind for something true to grow.

The field knew my name

Justin called and asked if I could cut his hair today.
Of course, I grabbed my keys to make the short drive over. But something stopped me. I felt a strong, quiet pull…

Ashley, walk.

It didn’t make much sense…it was so hot outside, and I had clippers to carry…but the prompting was clear. Insistent, even.
So I listened. I packed up the clippers and stepped outside.

The moment I started walking, everything felt different. The air had that soft, slow kind of magic.

My mind quieted.

My heart opened.

I could hear the trees rustling, kids laughing somewhere nearby, and wind chimes singing from an unseen porch.

It was simple…it was beautiful.

On the walk home, I came to the wheat field…that wide stretch between our houses, golden and tall, swaying in the wind.

That’s when I heard it.

A soft shhhhhhhh.
The whole field was moving together.
Like it was singing something only my heart could understand.

It reminded me of a mother’s hush…that soothing sound we make when we rock a baby or hold someone close and say, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
I felt that same comfort come over me.

Each stalk of wheat has its own shape, its own design, its own quiet intelligence.
But together, they created something more…a field that whispers.
A soft chorus of surrender.

Standing there, I could feel it in my chest: the feminine was speaking.

She was showing me….

The part of me that knows how to be still.
The part that doesn’t push, just listens.
The part that trusts the timing of things, even when I can’t see where it’s all going.

It felt like an answer to a prayer I’ve been whispering for years.
The question of… “Feminine, where are you?”

And she answered.

When I’m still, she answers.

I’ll never forget the sound of that wheat.

The hush of the Mother.

The way it held me…soft, sacred, and so alive.

Close your eyes, open your heart, listen.

She's there. 

Flow Into the Weekend

I’ve always craved rhythm. Not just routine but something deeper. A way to move through my days that feels soulful and rooted, not rushed and reactive. Over time, I began incorporating small rituals: 

lighting candles

pulling tarot cards

making tea with intention

These quiet acts became anchor points in the chaos of motherhood, work, and trying to be everything to everyone.

And somewhere in the swirl of it all, this weekend flow was born.

This little rhythm helps me through the weekend intentionally… not just a to-do list.

So today, I’m letting you into a little piece of my flow.
Not because I have it all figured out but because this has helped me feel again.

Feel joy.

Feel grounded.

Feel like I’m not just surviving the weekend, but creating something beautiful with it.

Because we don’t find balance, we create it. 

Flow Into the Weekend

Friday: Venus Day

Planet: Venus
Element: Water
Theme: Beauty, pleasure, connection, gratitude
Vibe: Soften into love. Tend to what you value. Make it beautiful just because.

Today’s Rituals:

Wear something you feel gorgeous in

Light a pink candle & say: “I soften into love today."

Share a nourishing meal with someone you love (including yourself)

Saturday: Saturn Day

Planet: Saturn
Element: Earth
Theme: Boundaries, rest, reflection, and ancestral wisdom
Vibe: Ground. Release guilt. 

Today’s Rituals:

Tidy your space slowly and with care

Write down what you’re holding and what you’re ready to release

Do one thing that honors your inner wise woman

Sunday: Sun Day

Planet: Sun
Element: Fire
Theme: Spirit, joy, truth, radiance
Vibe: Recharge. Worship what’s good. Let yourself shine without apology.

Today’s Rituals:

Dance, stretch, or bask in the sun

Make or bless a meal with intention (a sacred Sunday brunch)

Light a gold or yellow candle & say: “I am allowed to feel joy. I am meant to shine.”

 

Weekend Nourishment:

• Lemon water with honey to cleanse & energize
• Root veggie bowls or roasted herbs for grounding
• Chocolate or berries for pleasure
• Keep it sacred: bless your food, even the snacks

Weekend Journal Prompts:

• What am I done carrying?
• How can I pour love into my family without emptying myself?

This is the kind of magic I never want to forget! Ember and I hiking the mesa. 

Happy weekend, mama. Don’t forget...you’re the magic.